


Fidelity

by Krysanthemum



Category: Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: Arkham - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, F/M, I haven't written in years, Slow Burn, What am I doing, scoracletrash this is your fault, someone take my keyboard away
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 06:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5237840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krysanthemum/pseuds/Krysanthemum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My time is spent staring into the abyss, thinking.” </p><p>“Life sentences will give you that kind of free time.” Barbara deadpanned. </p><p>“Yes, but it does not give me answers.”</p><p>“Answers to what?”</p><p>“Why you stayed with The Batman.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fidelity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScoracleTrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoracleTrash/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Pet Bat - An Arkham Knight AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4581831) by [ScoracleTrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoracleTrash/pseuds/ScoracleTrash). 



The badge gave a half-hearted scratch as it was pushed beneath the glass separating her and the guard. Boldly taunting her decision, the words “Guest” stared up at her accusingly. Pressed shirt and gleaming buttons seem to run contrary to the tired bags under the guard's eyes as he glanced up from shuffling the papers in his hands. Their eyes met and then his dropped. Barbara could safely assume he was questioning as her as much as she is herself.  
  
She clipped the badge to the front of her hoodie, where her name rested innocently above those bold words. It wasn't a formality, it was mandatory, but in some way she felt insulted by it. Like she was here to visit him.  
  
The same guard shuffled behind the counter again and a loud, industrial buzzer replied. The heavy lock rolled back from the double pane, bulletproof-glass door, followed by the sound of a depressurizing hiss. As she rolled over the threshold hold the door her wheels caught in the frame, but a quick jerk pulled her over and into the small room. Her peripheral told her the guard was watching, his face caught in that conflicted neutrality most people found themselves in. She ignored it. The door then slammed shut behind her, signaling with a low hiss it was once gain airtight.  
  
For the briefest of moments, a prickle of dread picked its way down her vertebrae. She could easily recount the various times she had been in tighter corners, elbows and knees bumping against ventilation, _breathe in, breathe out_ , but her body ignores the assurance. She's not trapped, she's confined. _Breathe in._ It's not until the second lock rolls back and the door in front of her opens with that same hiss that she feels the blood rush back into her fingers from where they were gripping the armrests of her chair.

_Breathe out._

She kicks herself for it later.  
  
The Blackgate Penitentiary is a large facility, one that had grown with necessity. With the various criminals of Gotham some had thought putting away half the criminal population in Blackgate and Bludhaven (and away from the masterminds in Arkham) as a way of cutting the flock off from their deranged shepherds. It had become a balancing act to move the right criminals into the right prison, adjust numbers so no one gang outnumbered another, and keeping others subdued to keep them from making targets of rival gangs in lock up. It had worked, for the most part, until Arkham Asylum’s closing had necessitated most criminals be moved into two facilities instead of three. And then Arkham City…  
  
The only good thing to come of it all was the upgrade Bludhaven and Blackgate had received. Bludhaven had been outfitting itself to deal with the likes of Poison Ivy and Killer Croc; bio-terrorists and mutants. Blackgate, on the other hand had been prepared for the abnormally clever. Biometric readings, retinal scanners, tier encrypted security hosted on several servers… The list went on.  
  
But despite all the security…

The second station is different.

The man has the same air as the Knight's militia sans the attitude. Professional black and blues, strapped and packed into WayneTech armor. She recognizes the stance as one of outward resting, but the alert tilt of his head, the guarded eyes behind a visor, both hands rest loosely on his rifle, index finger waiting beneath the trigger.

Years ago, she might have been intimidated by his height, looking up from the confines of her chair. Years ago, she was still getting used to the limits of her new life, adjusting to hurdles she had never once considered factoring into her day to day.  
  
She raised her chin, “I’m here to see Crane.”  
  
To his credit, he was well trained, giving away as much as stone. His eyes dropped to her jeans wet from the rain outside, then to her scarf still tucked beneath her chin to chase away the chill of the penitentiary’s walls, and lastly they landed on the badge resting above her heart. She could see the readout slip past his left eye.  
  
He reached into his belt, pulling out an electronic wand, one Barbara recognized. The guard paused to look her in the eye.  
  
“Go ahead.” She said, giving him permission to check from trace amounts of gas. The same reader based on Batcave technology used to sniff out fear toxin.  
  
She sat still as the wand passed over her left and then her right. The guard had moved his gun under the crook of his elbow, passing the wand over her legs, chest, and back of her chair. When he was satisfied, he stood straight again, eyeing the readout above the handle.  
  
“All good, Ms Gordon.” He confirmed, turning to hit a button behind him.  
  
The doors to his right open, giving way to a clean, steel elevator.  
  
“Make sure you don’t leave anything behind not registered with the front office.” The guard explains. “The floor of the elevator has a scale will know if you try coming back up with anything less than you went down with. You’ll also need to scan your handprint twice, once to go down, once to come back up. You’ll have to wait for me confirm before the elevator will come back up. We have surveillance cameras all around the cell and inside of it.”  
  
“Got it.” Barbara nodded, wheeling into the confines of the elevator. The guard followed her, stopping right outside the threshold of the sliding doors. He slid his gun back around in front of him, finger resting on the trigger.  
  
“As per your request, audio has been disabled. But rest assured, any sudden movements and you guarantee we’ll be down before you can say ‘Master of Fear’.”  
  
“Ok. Thanks.” She licked her lips, feeling her palms sweat beneath her gloves. She pulled it off, using the motion to wipe the moisture from her hand as she placed her hand on the console.  
  
The doors slid shut, cutting off her view of the above ground as she began her decent. There was no rumble or hum, and she felt no movement in the small cab. The only indication she had moved at all was the door announcing its arrival. The ring of the bell felt like a lie, a betrayal to the sheer magnitude of absolute isolation on the other side.  
  
A single florescent light lit the small room, a beacon and a island in a sea of black. It was probably only twenty feet, if that, but never before had she felt so uneasy in the dark. Not before nor since her days as a caped crusader had she ever seen such an unforgiving pitch of shadows.  
  
Some of her discomfort eased as she rolled out of the elevator, small, unseen bulbs lining the hallway lighting up, pulling a dull glow into the room to light her path. Her chair seem to make more noise than usual as she moved slowly, arms pulling her toward her her former-kidnapper.  
  
“So… you _truly_ want my help.”  
  
Jonathan Crane had never been a good looking man. Too long, too lean, much like the name he had chosen. Barbara had seen the case files, poured over them in the hopes of finding something, anything. She found she’d much prefer the wiry man he had once been to the horror eyeing her on the other side of the glass.  
  
Rumors had circulated in the criminal network, as they always do. A run in with Killer Croc had left Crane mangled and torn. It was an impressive feat to survive a man-eater who had left only one other victim alive, though it was hard to say if Crane had actually gotten lucky compared to Cash. A leg forever contained in a brace, a face that would give Harvey’s other half nightmares, and a need of respiratory assistance for the rest of his foreseeable future.  
  
They had removed what they could to debilitate Crane, but the doctors had shaken their heads in horror and doubt upon discovering the extent of the damage. Burlap could not be removed from the skin and bone it had been attached to, and there was no way to replace Crane’s macgyvered breathing apparatus without dropping a considering sum of cash on reconstruction. The alternative was to simply kill the man.  
  
Many were calling for the latter.  
  
“I would rather leave you down here in the dark.” Barbara admitted, watching Crane rise from the lone bed. Without his hood, it was easier to see the crisscross of flesh and burlap, a maze of stitches and scars crawling across his scalp. Easier to see the canisters attached to his jaw, helping him breathe through a shredded throat. He looked like the stuff of the nightmares he so loved to inspire.  
  
“Ah, yes, but I am no stranger to the dark, Barbara.” Crane replied loftily. “But then again... neither are you.”  
  
“You said you would help, but you wouldn’t say why in your message.” She steered the conversation back to her reason for being here, ignore the jab. “So I’m here, and I hope it’s not to discuss your freedom. Because that’s a lofty goal for the man who held Gotham hostage.”  
  
“The only thing the outside world holds for me right now is relief from my boredom, Ms Gordon.” Crane sighed, milky eyes closing in a show of patience. “I have unmasked The Batman and held the world in fear over the fate of an entire city. For now, that is more than enough.”  

"You were a wreck when they brought you into the GCPD.” Barbara shot back.  
  
“Mm…” Crane hummed, the note dissolving into low chuckles. Dead eyes opened once more, finding and holding her gaze. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt such… terror.”  
  
Barbara scoffed, putting her hands on the wheels of her chair to turn and leave. “You’re sick. And we’re done.” She began to turn, wheeling herself away from the madman and away from the idea she had thought might prove fruitful.  
  
“Your time, Barbara.”  
  
She stopped.   “What?”

  “I thought bats possessed superior hearing.” Another sigh, snaking through the darkness around her like a black snake in oily water. When she turned to look at him again, he had one hand on the glass, head cocked to one side. It made him no less horrific to look at, but somehow she was left with the impression that Crane was… pleading wasn't the right word. But neither was asking or any other word that suggested Jonathan Crane wasn't a sociopath capable of mimicking human behavior to suit his needs.  
  
“My time is spent staring into the abyss, thinking.”  
  
“Life sentences will give you that kind of free time.” Barbara deadpanned.  
  
“Yes, but it does not give me answers.”  
  
“Answers to what?”  
  
“Why you stayed with The Batman.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wow... I think I had to dust off my fingers for this one. Excuse any grammar/spelling mistakes, I haven't written in years.


End file.
